Into the Vortex

By Brian Eckert

"I had a decision to make. I was being called aboard the craft. But I hesitated. I was not ready. It was not time."

Zayne Moxley is in a bit of a rut. On paper, he has it made; as a writer for one of America's leading men's magazines, he gets paid to travel the world and have sex with beautiful women. But like most people

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terror House Press, LLC
• Release date: Mar 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951897079

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Copyright © 2020 Terror House Press, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means (whether electronic or mechanical), including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-951897-07-9

EDITOR

Matt Forney (mattforney.com)

LAYOUT AND COVER DESIGN

Matt Lawrence (mattlawrence.net)

Excerpts of this book were published, in somewhat different form, by the following magazines and websites: Expat Press and New Pop Lit. The author would like to thank each publication for their support.

TERROR HOUSE PRESS, LLC

terrorhousepress.com

Table of Contents

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

Epilogue

Book One

I.

Driving to Sedona from Las Vegas, I decided on a whim to take a detour to the Grand Canyon. Standing at the Canyon’s rim for the first time, I was nearly brought to tears.

But within a couple of hours, I was bored. So it goes with the world traveler: he eventually finds that the world is not enough.

From the Canyon, I drove south on a highway that was almost completely flat and straight, speed limit 75. My rented Lincoln SUV had Napa leather seats, a powerful V6 engine, and a Bose sound system. I listened to Miles Davis at high volume, not giving a shit whether I hit a deer at well over 100 MPH. It was a rental, after all.

Past Flagstaff and the San Francisco Peaks, the rows of pine trees lining the road thinned out and disappeared as the highway dropped down steadily into the Verde Valley and beyond, the Valley of the Sun. The air grew noticeably warmer.

I turned right onto a state road and drove for about twelve miles before the first of the red rock formations came into view, the color of rusted iron, in the shape of a flat-topped stone cathedral. Further on, a red-peaked landscape suggestive of Mars stretched out. I had the sense of coming home, which was strange, because I’d never been to Sedona.

GQ had sent me to write a feature about Sedona’s famed vortexes. I was a journalist-cum-lifestyle writer who hadn’t written anything serious in the last ten years. Journalists could not operate in a post-fact world. Everything was lifestyle writing now.

Hello, sir, welcome to the Westin Sedona, said a man in white gloves and a hat. He held the door for me and bowed his head slightly.

Inside the lobby, I was greeted again, this time by a woman in a navy pantsuit.

Welcome, sir, she said. Can I offer you a refreshment?

I’d like a beer.

I’m sorry, we can’t serve alcoholic drinks in the lobby, but each room has a well-stocked minibar.

Mineral water, then.

Yes, sir. Check in is right this way.

She brought me a bottle of Fiji Water. Her name tag said Rachel. I could feel her sex beneath her uniform.

Check-in was brief. They explained that there was an additional $200 fee for something; frankly, I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about the contents of the minibar and how I might go about fucking Rachel. I signed a piece of paper and received my key card.

The concierge tried to sell me on an entertainment package. She recommended the sundown horseback ride with steak dinner.

Best steak I ever had, said the concierge, named Monica. Melt in your mouth.

The helicopter tour was also good, she said, although personally, heights terrified her.

Monica appeared sincere in her efforts to accommodate my pleasure. Her professionalism bordered on genuine human affection. Whoever said you couldn’t buy love had severely overestimated human nature. As a man of means, I could expect to be treated far better by members of the service industry than by friends, family, and coworkers.

I opted for the horseback ride. Monica signed me up for that evening’s session. The shuttle left at 5:15, she said. She recommended I arrive five minutes early.

The suite had a queen-sized bed, half-kitchen, Jacuzzi tub, and walk-in shower. The countertops were granite, the sheets 4,000-thread count, the appliances stainless steel. There was also a heated pool, a full-service spa, and a hotel bar and restaurant.

I would not lack for comfort. But what I wanted was excitement.

The suite looked out over the resort’s 18-hole golf course. I opened a Stella from the minibar and briefly watched the action at the 12th hole before remembering that I fucking hate golf.

II.

I got a text message from GQ’s Director of Advertising, David Falkenberg, wanting to know whether I had arrived in Sedona.

Falkenberg was a friend as well as a colleague. At least, we were friends as much as two men can be. Past about the age of 20, men aren’t capable of true friendship. They can carouse and commiserate, but there is none of the tenderness seen in female friendships. Probably this is for the best. Human relationships don’t amount to much, anyway.

I told Falkenberg I was settling in. I suspected that he was at a nice restaurant drinking $14 martinis and leering at the waitress as he talked impatiently on his phone to someone about market disruption and ROI.

While a complete pain in the ass, he was excellent at his job. Under his tutelage, GQ’s advertising revenue had increased more than 20 percent for six straight quarters. Almost single-handedly, he had made the magazine’s print version relevant again. He possessed a preternatural understanding of our core readership—the 24 to 48 year old urban male of above-average income—and his changing consumer habits.

The modern gentleman was spending the same or more than his female counterpart on clothing and rapidly entering the beauty and cosmetics market as well. Men, though, were still more apt than women to spend in the attainment of experiences, rather than material goods. Men, furthermore, spent significant money on women and the pursuit of women. These trends informed GQ’s overall tone: how to live a fashionable, adventurous, and cultivated lifestyle while getting pussy.

Falkenberg understood that GQ existed, more or less, as a vehicle for advertisers, so he began to explicitly consult them about the types of features that would best suit their products. Most of the time, I knew in advance which brands had paid for advertising space in the features I was writing, and I was expected to write accordingly.

GQ also began to use sponsored product spots in its articles, similar to those seen in movies. For example, I might mention that as I prepared for my horseback ride, I slipped a Buck knife into my pocket, or put on a vintage Levi’s jean jacket, or checked the time on my solar-powered Bvlgari watch with thermometer, altimeter, and chronograph function.

For the Sedona feature, GQ had secured a spot for a new line of Patagonia jackets made from ocean-salvaged plastic and Fair Trade Certified sewing. Manufacturer’s suggested retail price: $800. Nobody ever said saving the earth is cheap.

The Patagonia spot was GQ’s foray into a growing consumer sector that centered, ironically, on assuaging people’s environmental concerns about consumerism. Sustainable clothing, eco-tourism, zero-emissions cars, carbon-neutral dining, and similar green segments were identified as an important new source of advertising revenue.

Falkenberg referred to this as conscious consumerism. He maintained that it was vital we impart to our readership the idea that one can have it all—fashion, fun, beauty, and travel—while still being eco-friendly.

Marketing, he said, is about creating a sense of belonging. And the more exclusive the club, the better. Certainly, there is nothing more elitist than environmentalism.

III.

Rachel greeted me in the lobby, where I waited for the shuttle to arrive. I introduced myself and handed her my card.

"Zayne Moxley, GQ. I’m a writer," I said.

She pocketed the card and smiled.

Send me a message when you get off work, I said. I’d love to talk to a local for my story.

What’s your story about?

The vortexes.

And? Do you feel the power?

I have to admit I did feel something when I arrived in town.

It’s subjective, she said. If you want to feel something, you will.

I very much want to, I said.

She showed me to the shuttle. I took the front seat next to the driver. I smelled an old woman’s perfume. Someone had been smoking a pipe. The driver looked like a recovering alcoholic, or a Mormon. It was difficult to be sure.

We made stops at two other resorts to pick up passengers. Altogether, there were eleven guests: four couples and three single men. I estimated that I was the youngest passenger by about ten years. Not a single person appeared to be in GQ’s target demographic.

The Sunshine Ranch dated to 1837. It was a functioning ranch until 1974, when the previous owner went bankrupt after losing 70 percent of his herd due to a freakish cold spell. Since 1981,